


Unbirthday

by redscudery



Series: Off-Kilter [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Coming Untouched, Established Relationship, Kilts, Kissing, Lube, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Coital Cuddling, Prostate Massage, SO MUCH LUBE, Sentimental Sherlock, Sherlock in Lingerie, Stockings, Top John, Wet & Messy, Women's Underwear, also John, because Sherlock also got carried away, ish, it was just supposed to be fingering but John got carried away, like squelchy amounts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5738584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John frowns. It's not a holiday. Is it? Some obscure saint’s day? Why did Sherlock choose today to put on those ridiculous beribboned stockings?<br/>"Statistically speaking--taking into account the greater concentration of births in early fall--there are approximately one hundred thousand Britons having a birthday today. And, while it's marginally ridiculous to celebrate an arbitrary biological event, people do. So, we're celebrating someone's birthday."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unbirthday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



> ...whose unbirthday this is, also.

One very late afternoon, John wakes to find the kilt neatly laid out on his bedside table. On top of it is a very sheer cream undergarment. A very sheer cream _women’s_ undergarment.

Well. He rubs his eyes and shakes his head a bit. It should be too early for this but it never is, and so he pulls on the knickers, fastens the kilt around his waist, and goes down in the hope that there’s tea.

There’s not tea. There is, however, Sherlock Holmes sprawled on his chair, wearing nothing but women’s stockings and a pair of black knickers sheerer even than John’s.

“I see.” John says, keeping his voice level. “Playtime, is it?”

“I thought perhaps you would miss these,” Sherlock says, not without a slight wobble in his voice. “And so I took the liberty.”

John is touched, if puzzled--not to mention profoundly aroused.

“So I wasn’t meant to put these on, then?” he asks, lifting the kilt slightly. Sherlock leans forward and focuses; John teases him by exposing more. Now he knows his thigh is visible, and he can feel cool air on his cock as well. Sherlock smirks, then leans back and crosses his legs.

Bloody hell. Bows.

John has a weakness for bows, though how the hell Sherlock deduced that he has no idea. And now there are pink ribbon bows at the back of Sherlock’s sleek, muscular thighs, and he’s so hard he’s falling out of his own stupid sheer knickers (they’re the same colour as the bows. Nice touch).

Clearly, though, this cannot go unpunished. Feigning indifference to those damn ribbons for a minute, he runs his hand over his own cock. It feels different through the silky fabric. It’s certainly hardening, though he tries not to let Sherlock see him watching.

“Like the view?”

Bugger. He takes himself in hand with intent this time, watching Sherlock open his thighs wide. He wants to drop the kilt but knows Sherlock will count that as a win, so he holds it to one side with his free hand.

Sherlock counters by undoing one bow.

Slowly.

John’s mouth waters. Damn that man! He’d hoped, when they first started their physical relationship, that Sherlock could be undone by the first caresses, but no. Sherlock remains himself--perceptive, acid, and bossy--until disturbingly late in the proceedings. It’s a damn good thing he’s so desirable, John thinks, and then he caves.

He only hates himself for about four seconds, though, because that’s the time it takes for him to lose himself along the inner sweep of Sherlock’s thigh, the skin soft under his mouth. Soon, as he works up to the frill of lace right by the crease of Sherlock’s groin, and is rewarded with a long, shaky sigh. He ghosts his mouth across the hard ridge of flesh under the fabric and breathes in the scent of flesh and sex, then slips the knickers down a bit. He rests his head on Sherlock’s belly, marveling, as always, how incongruously soft it is. Sherlock’s cock rises up before him, a clear drop already on its tip. His balls are drawn up tight, and the underwear, delicate and beautiful, holds them in place.

John wants to take it slowly, to tease and to caress lightly until Sherlock is losing himself, but he cannot resist that one drop. He flicks his tongue out to catch it, but Sherlock arches his hips and suddenly the whole head is in John’s mouth, smooth-grained and hot. John sucks, briefly, and pulls back, but a soft moan from Sherlock makes him pause, breathless, for a moment, then engulf the head with a purpose.

He lets himself go, for a moment, lost in the smoothness and heat and taste. Then, Sherlock spreads his legs, thighs opening and hips canting upwards. John takes him in deeper; he runs his hand up the length of Sherlock’s cock while he sucks.

Sherlock’s bottom shakes a little, and John sucks Sherlock’s cock down deeper. Sherlock arches his arse up and the head of his cock hits the top of John’s mouth; John settles his hand firmly at the base and holds him back. Let him suffer, John thinks, though the shine in Sherlock’s eyes doesn’t seem indicative of much suffering.

John runs a dry finger down the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, relishing the quiver. When Sherlock quivers, he does it all over, and the shocks rocketing through his body crackle sympathetically down John’s spine. His own cock throbs against Sherlock’s thigh and he rubs it against the hard lines of Sherlock’s beautiful leg, encased in those maddening stockings. Then, he renews his efforts, channelling all his energy into his mouth to make Sherlock harder and harder.

“Wait,” Sherlock gasps, and John rolls the head around in his mouth one last time, then lets it pop out. He admires it, shiny and red against the whiteness of Sherlock’s belly. Of course, then Sherlock protests, a high, wordless noise, and tries to pull John in closer, the silkiness of his stockings at John’s sides a tease. He ruts against Sherlock’s leg. His own knickers are damp and constricting, but the silky fabric is producing new and delicious sensations. One minute and it could be over; they are both strung tight.

“John,” Sherlock gasps. “Don’t stop!” Contradictory bastard, John thinks. Maybe I _can_ wait. He hooks his thumbs under the edges of those knickers and pulls.

They come apart in his hands. Sherlock’s cock throbs, and another drop appears at the tip. John crooks up his mouth.

“Smug.” Sherlock breathes out, but he’s barely coherent.

John reaches for the lube and drizzles some into his hand; he teases down, taking his time over the sensitive spot behind the balls. He likes it when Sherlock is slick and messy, likes to drive in and feel the wetness of lube and come, so he spreads his fingers and grips Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock writhes.

John squeezes again, taking a voluptuous pleasure in the plushness of Sherlock’s buttocks. They are so round and soft that sometimes he wants to do them violence; he cannot get close enough to them for his own taste.  
He kneels, now, suddenly desperate to touch. He cups one buttock in each hand and pulls Sherlock’s hips towards him until his slippery balls and arse are bucked up against his belly. He surges up and kisses Sherlock hard, biting his lower lip and rocking against him. He wants to hold every inch of him, to possess him, and Sherlock wants that just as much, leaning into John and pushing back.

For a time, there are no sounds beyond breathing and wet skin. Then their desire slows, and John lets Sherlock sprawl back against the cushions.

“Please,” Sherlock mouths, and now his eyes are closed and he’s pliant enough for John to do what he wants. John himself is dangerously aroused, but he needs Sherlock’s pleasure more than his own. He reaches for the lube again, hands barely trembling.

He circles Sherlock’s arsehole, then works the tip of his finger in. Sherlock draws a long shuddering breath and waits, his body no longer demanding, just soft and accepting. John slides his finger in with no trouble, then out to the tip again, soft and slow. With every movement he feels the desire flow through Sherlock’s body, mounting gently, the hurricane of his earlier neediness calmed.

He kisses his way along Sherlock’s belly again, the rich skin a drug under his lips. Sherlock tastes of salt and lube and sex. John brushes his prostate once, then twice. Sherlock sighs.

“Tell me you want it,” John growls, and Sherlock says “Yes” but only on an exhalation, like all his energy is focused on pleasure and to hell with communication. John fingers him faster now, until there’s a pool on his belly and they’re both trembling. The only sound in the flat is their breathing and the wet noises of pleasure.

Sherlock’s face and chest are flushed when John really does take the kilt off and wriggle out of his blush-coloured knickers--not that Sherlock would know, because his eyes are closed and he’s biting that soft lower lip until it’s as pink as the ribbons on his thighs. John pulls on Sherlock’s hips again, until his cock is right at Sherlock’s arsehole; he rubs against the tender skin until Sherlock opens his mouth, soundless.

When John breaches him it’s inelegant.  His own control is ragged at best, and he almost slips out once, twice.

“Dammit,” he mutters, and grabs Sherlock firmly to help himself. Sherlock grips the back of the chesterfield and cries out low and needy until John is all the way in. The first stroke is almost more torture than pleasure; he’s so close. Sherlock is tight and welcoming, stockinged legs wrapped around him, and so he braces himself and bites his lip to gain control. Sherlock moves with him and they are together now, a synchronized dance much more successful than any they’ve tried to music.

Then, Sherlock’s breathing shifts, his muscles tense, and he comes, untouched, with a high keening wail unlike anything John’s ever heard from him. Time slows, and John watches as Sherlock’s semen spatters up his belly to his collarbones, a pale contrast to his flushed skin. It only takes a moment, though, for John’s brain to catch up to his eyes, and then he’s coming too, hard and fast and nearly painful. He’s trembling when he bends to kiss Sherlock, to touch his mouth to his cheeks and neck and chest, grateful and satisfied.

 

They’re lying peacefully on the chesterfield, stickily entwined and perfectly happy, when John frowns. It's not a holiday. Is it? Some obscure saint’s day? Why did Sherlock choose today to put on those beribboned stockings? He’s about to ask when Sherlock opens his mouth.

"Statistically speaking--taking into account the greater concentration of births in early fall--there are approximately one hundred thousand Britons having a birthday today. And, while it's marginally ridiculous to celebrate an arbitrary biological event, people do. So, we're celebrating someone's birthday."

John laughs.

“In other words, you felt like it.”

“I couldn’t remember your birthday.”

“You know everything about me, including my birthday. What happened is that you felt like something new, you planned it and then you thought of a way to justify it.” John laughs into Sherlock’s hair. “Science indeed.”

Sherlock is regally silent for a moment before getting up and stalking to the shower.

John watches him go with fondness and--it must be said--a twitch of desire. The stockings are still on.

Showered in his turn, with (finally) a cup of tea in hand, John sits down and begins to browse the Internet. Several days later--once again, by no coincidence, on their unbirthdays--another package arrives, with stockings even sheerer than before, held up by a series of stripes that make John’s mouth water even as he opens the package.

Sherlock says they look like bees, and so is delighted. He says he’ll wear them under the kilt.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The first stockings that Sherlock is wearing are [these beauties](http://www.figleaves.com/uk/product/FIG-005190/figleaves-boudoir-Isla-50-Denier-Ribbon-Hold-Up/?size=&colour=Black), and the ones John buys him at the end are [these delightful stripey things.](http://www.figleaves.com/uk/product/FIG-005189/figleaves-boudoir-Estela-20-Denier-Hold-up/?size=&colour=Black)


End file.
